


My Thoughts Will Echo Your Name

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [18]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale is adorable, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Feelings, Flowers, Fluff, Love at First Sight, M/M, Meet-Cute, The Author Makes Fun Of Sigmund Freud, aziraphale is dressed like a gay disaster and crowley IS a gay disaster, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 23:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20956412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Crowley tapped his pen against the counter as he stared out the window. Tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap, in rhythm with the rainfall.He was bored.It’d been a slow day—but then, of course it was, it was a bloody Tuesday and no one bought flowers on a Tuesday.No one bought flowers on a Tuesday, but Anthony J. Crowley was not, in fact, some sort of magician, and as such was unfortunately unable to control time, so he was stuck in a flower shop on a Tuesday and he wasbored.





	My Thoughts Will Echo Your Name

**Author's Note:**

> oh wow this is the CHEESIEST thing i've EVER written like,,,  
wow guys

Crowley tapped his pen against the counter as he stared out the window.  _ Tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap _ , in rhythm with the rainfall.

He was  _ bored _ .

It’d been a slow day—but then, of course it was, it was a bloody Tuesday and no one bought flowers on a _Tuesday_.

No one bought flowers on a Tuesday, but Anthony J. Crowley was not, in fact, some sort of magician, and as such was unfortunately unable to control time, so he was  _ stuck _ in a  _ flower shop _ on a  _ Tuesday _ and he was  _ bored _ .

He sighed as he took another desperate swig of his third cup of coffee of the day and then grimaced.

It was  _ cold _ .

How  _ fucking  _ lovely.

_ Out of the Garden _ was, in a word, perfect. It was perfect because it was Crowley’s, and Crowley wasn't going to settle for anything less than perfection. The walls were lined with glass shelves, and every shelf was topped with something green and bright and alive, be it an artfully arranged bouquet or a flourishing houseplant or a neat little succulent. The counters were clean, the bouquet paper was piled in tidy sheets, the plant food and watering cans and garden sheers were lined up like little soldiers in their rows.

Cared for with a steady hand and an iron fist.

_ Perfect _ .

And at times, perfectly  _ irritating _ .

Because if everything was perfect, and no one was going to buy flowers because it was a  _ Godforsaken Tuesday _ , then Crowley had nothing to do but sit behind his counter and tap his pen and drink his cold coffee.

There was, of course, paperwork that could’ve been done, but Crowley was trying to  _ escape  _ boredom, not drown himself in it.

Crowley was  _ actually _ on the verge of bludgeoning himself to death on a plant pot when the bell above the door chimed.

“Oi, welcome,” Crowley called out.

He lifted his head from its position against the countertop and felt his heart flip over in his chest.

The man he was looking at was, simply put,  _ an angel _ .

That wasn’t even Crowley indulging in theatrics.

Picture the most stereotypical image of an angel you can imagine. Blonde, curly hair, rosy cheeks, gentle smile, an overall aura of kindness and softness, the whole shebang.

Now imagine that creature dressed in a pale blue button-down, an argyle vest, a tartan bowtie, a camelback coat, corduroy pants, the sort of large, round glasses typically found in costumes of certain famous fictional boy wizards, and sensible shoes.

_That_ was who Crowley was looking at. _That _was the person who’d stumbled his way into Crowley’s flower shop.

Crowley dropped his pen.

“Are—I suppose you’re the owner of this establishment, then?” the angel asked, tilting his head to the side. He was running a finger along the petal of one of Crowley’s peonies, and even though Crowley could’ve sworn it had been raining a minute ago, the light was streaming in behind him, causing him to glow, and his voice was like chocolate and cherries and the best cabernet sauvignon and—

“Uh, yeah,” Crowley replied dumbly, immediately hating himself.  _ Uh, yeah _ . Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid _ —

“Well then, you’re just the person I’m looking for!” the angel said brightly, his hands fluttering about in front of him, and  _ bloody fucking hell _ , Crowley had never been one to put stock in God, but he’d happily fall to his knees  _ right then and there _ for this angel to say that again, preferably while he was cupping Crowley’s face in his hands and— “You see, I run a shop just down the street—used books and antiques and the like, you know—and I thought that a nice bouquet would be  _ just _ the thing the liven the place up a bit, especially what with this dreadful weather—”

Right. Yes. Bouquets. Flowers. Flower shop. Customer.

“Did you, erm, did you have anything in mind?” Crowley stammered, quickly slipping on his gloves and almost tripping in his haste to get out from behind his counter.

“Well, I  _ was _ thinking that these peonies are  _ quite  _ lovely,” the angel said. “They smell  _ delightful _ , and with those little lacey things over there—oh, but you certainly know more about this than I do. Pick whatever you feel would look best, my dear boy. I trust you.”

Crowley short-circuited.

“ _ Ngk _ ,” he choked out before clearing his throat. “I—sure, of course, whatever you want, angel—”

Once upon a time in Czechia, a baby was born, and that baby would grow into a man who was wrong  _ 99.9999% _ of the time. No one can be wrong  _ all  _ the time, however, and so the .00001% of things he  _ didn’t _ get wrong would eventually be named after him.

Crowley had just experienced one of those things.

The florist’s mouth snapped shut with an audible  _ click  _ as he prayed to every deity he’d ever even  _ thought _ he’d heard of.

This was—it was ridiculous. The whole thing was— _ ridiculous _ . Crowley wasn’t—Crowley didn’t—there was no such thing as  _ love at first sight _ . It wasn’t real. Crowley—he knew that.  _ Everyone  _ knew that. It was—there was no magical cherub flying around in a diaper, shooting people with arrows or— _ fuck _ .

There was no reason for Crowley to be—to be so  _ enchanted _ with this man he’d known for forty-five seconds, a man whose name he  _ didn’t even know _ .

He muttered under his breath as he carefully selected the flowers he for the ang— _ the man’s _ bouquet.

White peonies, and Queen Anne’s Lace, roses in the palest pink, a daisy or two—all the best blooms, nothing with a petal out of place.

He continued to grumble as he assembled the bouquet. “Don’t you dare wilt,” he hissed. “No rotting, no dying, no  _ nothing,  _ got it? You are to be  _ perfect _ . Nothing less. I’ll know.”

(He didn’t know  _ how _ he’d know, but the flowers were, thankfully, polite enough not to ask.)

“Alright, here we are, Mr…?” Crowley said as he held out the finished arrangement. It was some of his best work, if he did say so himself (and he did).

“Fell,” the man replied. “Azariah Fell. Thank you so much, really, this is just—it’s wonderful. How much will it be, then?”

Crowley, who had been rolling he name  _ Azariah Fell  _ over his tongue as if he could taste it, quickly shook himself out of his stupor. “It’s, uh. On the house,” he stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just, if anyone asks, tell them—yeah.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Take it, an—Azariah. Really. Don’t worry about it.”

Azariah Fell stared at Crowley for a moment before a slow, sweet smile bloomed on his face, more beautiful than any flower Crowley had ever seen.

“Thank you,” Azariah finally said, and left with that same smile on his face.

The next day, Anthony J. Crowley found a lavender rose threaded through the handle of the front door of his shop, with a business card tied to it with a bit of string.

_ I was reading about the meanings behind certain flowers in a book at my shop, and I thought you might enjoy this particular bloom _ , the looping, gorgeous cursive on the back of the card read.  _ My apologies for purchasing this from another florist, but I didn’t think it proper to buy you a flower from your own store. However, if you ever wish to stop by the shop, I would be most willing to make it up to you. Yours Most Ardently, Azariah Z. Fell. _

Crowley clutched the rose close to his chest.

It was Wednesday, and no one bought flowers on a Wednesday, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me your thoughts


End file.
